


The Law of Reciprocity

by pineapple_split



Category: Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapple_split/pseuds/pineapple_split
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dexter cares for his garden, and his garden cares for him. Until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Law of Reciprocity

They find life in the grainy darkness, the echoes of small appendages pressing them into the comforting warmth. They soak up the good things happily, with no concept of anything but newborn curiosity and eternal gratitude to the gentleness which created them. Earthly whispers float up through the soil, voices scrambling over each other in infant excitement and a never-ending eagerness to be closer to that which they loved.

He's there for every stage of their growth. From seedlings to maturity, he waters and fertilizes and prunes. He speaks of unknown things, seemingly incapable of ceasing his chatter. As they memorize the sound of his voice, they collectively decide that their existence is now devoted to him. When the first blossoms emerge, they reach out to him. When the days are sticky and warm, they spread their leaves and provide shade for him. There is no selfish taking to be had with him. They give and receive and give again, and it is good.

The more he comes, the more they listen. They can't understand him save for the greeting he calls out each time the iron gate opens and he bounds up: hel-lo.

_Hello._  

____________________________

The boy, barely larger than an adolescent sapling, hides beneath the loving shelter of maternal boughs and snuffles his discontent into the brown dirt that mothered them. He's curled into a miserable ball, and they ache to ask what's wrong, who made him this way. Though their stems sway anxiously and their roots stiffen with something like distant indignation, all they can do is offer endless comfort. They've noticed he relaxes, marginally, with each brush of a barely-blooming veronica blossom. He had poured all his innocent love into their roots and they give it right back, unconditional and pure. Caterpillars, the children of their fruits, crawl across his face in a gentle kiss of solidarity.

_Child. Come and accept love._

He does.

Later, he uncurls and washes his face in the rushing water nearby. He stays among them, unwilling to leave‒ oh, but that day is coming! They can sense it with all the heartbroken trepidation of a young bird whose parents are about to push it out of the nest‒ instead choosing to churn up the earth with the little trowel he keeps by the gate. It doesn't serve much purpose beyond softening ground, but its rhythmic work that serves to banish the dark things from his head. He doesn't think when he sinks back to the ground and lets the swaying leaves cast dancing shadows over his eyelids. His garden welcomes his sleeping form without question.

____________________________

The world freezes, and they freeze with it.

No confusion, for this is the natural cycle and the way it must always be. They settle into the ground and accept death. The frost coats the leaves and long-gone buds with all the inevitability of the long, deep chill. They accept this. The cold things permeate their cores, the pith freezing with all the rest. All sensations, those things regulated by the sun and the beloved one, are cut off. They accept this as well.

But where is their friend? They had longed, had dared to hope, that he'd visit them one last time. To feel the curl of his hands once more, to brush against his hair and send him home with their pollen so that he'd never forget them‒ these are their last thoughts and desires before the winter takes them to a far off place, absent of life and most of all absent of him.

_____________________________

Days, months, seasons alone. They've lost track of time. Occasionally he comes by, but always with someone else and the encounter is always impersonal. Weeds are pulled, vines are pruned back, moss is cleared from the fountain. Then he's gone without a backward glance. They rustle unhappily. Doesn't he need them like they need him? There's no room for isolation in a reciprocal relationship. He knows this. He coaxed them into the world and they lived, breathed, photosynthesized for him.

His long absence had been difficult enough, but this is somehow worse. To be so close to him again, only for him to cast a disinterested eye and grumble angrily‒ it is too much bear. Their flowers wilt prematurely as they draw into themselves. Left to its own devices, the garden lets misery permeate the stone walls and take root.

____________________________

A woman they've never seen before is here. She steps carefully through the snow and surveys the small area that was once the home of so much joy. Perhaps she can sense the echoes of past lives, for she swallows and shifts awkwardly. Before long she shakes herself, as much to warm up as to banish away some melancholy reverie, and begins searching. What exactly she's looking for is unclear, but she's thorough. They cannot help but peer out curiously; she reminds them of him. She has the same fundamental goodness in her.

Half-dead and long since broken-hearted, they watch as she inspects the carved head of their boy's much-missed guardian. He had been a good man. They watch as she pulls the hidden keepsake out. She doesn't immediately leave. She circles, unable to stand still in the cold for too long. She watches them as they watch her. Here, she brushes her hand against the climbing vines, there she carefully pats snow off the once magnificent rugosa. They shift, surprised. They'd forgotten what it was like to be cared for.

____________________________

_We've missed you_.

They lack the words to express the sentiment, but the curl of the vines around his hands is sufficient. Enough. More so, for those stalks carry years, decades of unspoken things. Memories that are not quite memories; imprints of past life not totally separate from the present state of being.  

Almost embarrassed in his movements, he slowly starts pulling away the weeds. Gently, gently, he smoothes away the thorny brambles that serve only to choke and smother. Gone are the poisonous roots and the thick, chafing grass stalks. The garden bids them goodbye without sorrow. They will not be missed. He bats irritably at stray cobwebs, sends small spiders and aphids flying ( _goodbye_ ). Shriveled petals and leaves are swept away ( _goodbye_ ). The new asters are left alone ( _welcome_ ).

He's speaking, in his strange way, but his words are as intelligible as they always were. His plants must infer from the vibrations of his voice in the earth, from the way he straightens their leaves in apology. He's sorry to have been gone so long. He wants his friends back. They welcome him without question.

He kneels in the earth as he did lifetimes ago, and he returns to his work. 

**Author's Note:**

> Another piece written for the ND Fan Fiction Month (now, the Fan Fiction Summer/Winter) on Tumblr. It was heavily inspired by the song "Ode to Shel (The Giving Tree)" that a friend of mine wrote, which in turn was inspired by Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. You can find the song here: http://hrvburtch.bandcamp.com/track/ode-to-shel-the-giving-tree 
> 
> If it wasn't clear enough, the boy in the story is Dexter Egan. The names of plants in here are all based on the very rudimentary research I did on Zone 4 plants (Zones 3-5 being what most of Wisconsin is, to my knowledge). 
> 
> The theme for this piece is "Beginnings."


End file.
